


Exodus

by Aurantiifolia



Series: MATANGI [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AU, F/M, In which the age difference between these two is greater than three years, No prosthetics in this one, everything has a reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:47:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28119432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurantiifolia/pseuds/Aurantiifolia
Summary: "Yeah the sun the moon are bothHitting the hood and the heat's too hot to be cool"-Mathangi Arulpragasam(Or these two have a complicated relationship)
Relationships: Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes/Satya "Symmetra" Vaswani
Series: MATANGI [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2060040
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	Exodus

Jamison Fawkes saw life through an old pair of 3D glasses- one side red, one side blue, but in a cohesiveness that made him feel like more than what he was. The drugs made him soar. He would imagine himself in another life, in another timeline, with different circumstances. Where he wouldn’t be gripping the steering wheel the way he was. Tight until his knuckles turned white one second and fingertips barely whispering against it the next. His vision wouldn’t be focusing and unfocusing. He wouldn’t be watching the woman in the parking spot in front of him at eight in the evening as she threw heeled legs out of her expensive BMW he could only dream of owning and slammed the door behind her. She probably wouldn’t stop mid-stride to pivot where she was, yank the vehicle door open, throw in her dainty purse and slam the door again. And she wouldn’t continue her heeled beating on the wet concrete, head down, hair whipping in the wind, to climb the side of his beaten old Chevy and slam his door as well.

He knew the powerful cloud of cannabis in his truck punched her in the face the moment she nearly pulled the door off its hinges with an irate pinch to her features. He was about to raise his arm to offer her a drag when as soon as her pearly white pencil skirt hit his passenger seat, her aura screamed “Drive”.

His hand hit the stick shift and his foot hit the pedal not a millisecond later.

In his drug addled mind, the life he pictured didn’t feature him racing down the highway with a woman he only knew from observation. He thinks he would know everything about her. Anything that could possibly make her scowl soften. The flashes of teeth he’d see from her would be from more than just uttering a word to him. He’d be driving her home to a mansion on a hill right now. Home to their bed.  
He almost veers into the next lane trying to diminish the thought.

She doesn’t let him touch her.

Prolonged eye contact might as well be asking her to exit his truck the way she came. He doesn’t do anything to tip her off in the slightest for the fear that the realization of what they are doing will sink in and he will never see her again. He darts his eyes toward her quickly at a red light and catches her staring right at him. He jerks in his seat and the light turns green the next instant. If she was the laughing type, like he used to be, there’s no doubt she wouldn’t be able to breathe because he knows his reaction was a sight. Instead, he catches her head movement in his peripheral, turning to the window and his heart deflates. Fifteen minutes later, he pulls into a small clearing that overlooks the city. Then he holds the blunt out to her.

He noticed her wedding ring only thirty seconds after they first met. He so deeply wants to believe that if he’d noticed it thirty seconds earlier, his heart wouldn’t ache the way it does. He’s grateful she spares him the reminder when she takes the blunt with the hand sans the ring on their rendezvous, but its presence still sits heavily in the air. She brings the drug to her lips and he looks away. There’s a near silence for her inhalation and he cranes his neck to try and catch her exhalation. It’s beautiful, he thinks. She fills his truck artistically. 

Then she shifts in the passenger seat and he refuses to move or breathe.  
In the deafening silence, he can hear her eyes studying him. This is new. She usually doesn’t spare him a glance. His throat bobs as he recalls, without moving to look, what he decided to throw on his body today. A grey singlet with the silhouette of electric guitars that hangs from his frame. He mentally kicks his ass. His shorts aren’t too bad he thinks. Forest green khakis. At least he remembered to wear a belt. It’s still too much attention from her all at once, and he gulps. Then, chancing his life, he shifts his chin a millimeter to the right so he could look as far as his eyes would go in her direction without turning to face her. The blunt hangs from her lips and her gaze is fixated on the parts of his chest that are exposed. Ever so slowly as if she’s counting his freckles, her eyes travel up his neck, across his jawline, over his lips and curve of his nose, and finally to his…

She looks away.

Jamison huffs out a puff of air from his nose that he probably shouldn’t have. It was audacious in the silence and too exasperated to let pass innocently. And in the moment before he attempts to remedy it, he ponders his situation. What he tells his mother before leaving the house. That he’s going with friends. What he tells his friends. That he’s working late. He doesn’t want to think about what they’d say if they knew that a decent portion of his salary went towards refilling his truck and buying drugs for the occasions that he can drive around the city and smoke with a married woman. What they would say when the age difference would click and the topic of his being a minor would come up even though his eighteenth birthday was not far. That the entire ordeal is a scandal. Even though they rarely speak to each other, look at each other, let alone touch each other.  
And then his train of thought takes a sharp turn, like it has many times before. He blames the cannabis for bringing him back to the cluster of thoughts he hates thinking about. Her situation. What does she tell her husband when she comes home late, reeking of herb? Does she immediately run to the shower? Is he even home when she gets home? Does he even care? Is he the reason she takes the time out of her day to smoke with a minor? Does she do it to forget him? Does she hate him, does she love him? Does he hit her?!

Jamison is suddenly heated. A wave of emotions violently smack him in the chest and he honestly doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why he cares so much when the woman sitting next to him might as well be a stranger. But he still has no control over how his heart hammers on the days he gets to see her. Her very presence gives him a reason to stay in school. When he’s higher than the clouds, he imagines what he would do after he graduates high school and collects a degree from an overly expensive school. He imagines her at his graduation ceremony, with maybe the slightest curl of her lips because he did it. He broke the mold of the degenerates that attend his sad high school in his sad black hole of a town. He imagines taking her somewhere expensive like The Bahamas and watching her maybe smile in the sun. When he’s really stoned, he even pictures what their children would look like. He hates what drugs do to him.

She misreads his nasal puff of air and holds the blunt out for him to take.

Her gaze is still forward and he doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he hesitantly plucks the rolled paper from between her fingers. He stares at it before taking his own drag. He wishes her lipstick left a stain, but it doesn’t. He blows at the windshield. And when he turns to hand the drug back, all at once her posture slumps a centimeter, her eyelids lower, and the finger that was fidgeting with the impressive rock on her ring relaxes. He’s a little stunned if he’s being honest.  
More so when her head rolls in his direction at speed of evaporation.  
She blinks at him, her expression like a blank canvas. He blinks back.  
He finds himself grasping for a reason as to why he never noticed the color of her eyes before. Subdued gold chips, illuminated by the city lights in the distance. Dumbstruck, Jamison drinks her in with cannabis enhanced sight. It’s then that he also discovers the mole above her lips. The shape of her lips- cupid’s bow. Her very defined and structured nose. The thick of her eyebrows and curled long lashes. Her sparkly dangly earrings. How the baby hairs that frame her face curl with tenacity and the rest of her hair falls in loose waves.

Then it hits him that he’s staring and he yanks his head away to the windshield with golf ball sized eyes.

Jamison internally curses himself a hundred times over. She’s going to leave now. Well she actually can’t, but she’s going to command him to take her back and the drive will be hell for him. She’s going to kick his truck door off with her heeled leg when they reach the parking lot, stomp back to her beautiful car, slam the door, swerve the hell away, drive off to whatever near city she lives in, and he will never lay eyes on her again. 

“Fuck,” he grumbles to himself and starts the engine.

Then…

Then…

He feels a warm hand on his where he’s gripping the keys and it’s enough to make him short circuit.

He thinks he does for a solitary two and a half seconds, but then she speaks. And he thinks he’s died, surely.

“I don’t want to go just yet.”

Her accent. She has an accent. And he’s never heard it because she’s never said more than two words to him. The blunt has fallen into his lap now. She’s leaned over in the passenger seat. From her swift movement, he caught a whiff of her scent and her gaze seems to be set on their hands. At least, before she turns to him and one word comes to his mind. Just one: Woman. 

She tears her hand and eyes away then. 

Jamison looks beyond at the city for a stale moment. She’s just touched his hand and spoken a sentence to him all in less than thirty seconds. It’s more than she’s ever done in the time knowing him and he has a gnawing feeling that she’s regretting it. But he switches the engine off again. She has an accent. He hates the way that little detail is affecting him. Or maybe he loves it. No, he hates it because his loins reacted without his permission when she spoke. Yes, he hates it. Only he is in charge of his loins, not her.

She sits with her back straight now, pointedly staring a hole into the space between her feet. She then stays that way for an uncomfortable amount of time before she lifts her arm and holds out her hand. 

Jamison stares at it.

Perhaps the amount of time she sat there like a statue, she was pondering their situation as well? Perhaps that split eye and hand contact they had sent electricity through her blood like it did for him? Perhaps she was tired of all those silent evenings without tactility? Perhaps when she touched his hand, she liked it? And she wanted...more? In the back of his mind, there was a sober part of him that was screaming something. The drugged out part silenced it and told him to run with the fact that she had willingly touched him earlier.

Before the opportunity could expire, Jamison slipped his hand into hers.

He could see the gasp before he could hear it. Her eyes widened and her lips parted in shock. He thinks she involuntarily curled her fingers around his. Then her head snaps to witness their hands and she clears her throat.

“The blunt, please.”

“Shit!”

It’s a panicked whisper, more to himself, but he extracts his hand at the speed of light and fumbles to find the blunt, somewhere in the creases of his shorts. He curses whatever deities are up there that he knows are laughing at his luck right now.  
When he feels the familiar cylinder at the tips of his fingers, he quickly drops it in her hand and gulps.

“ ‘M real sorry.”

His mother may give a shit about him one day and forget about him the next and his friends may be stoners like him with questionable clothing and his father may be a total fucktard that left him, but he has manners and he knows how to be a gentleman. He always got compliments from his teachers and other elders for that.

The drug is between her lips as she nods her acknowledgment.

After that, to Jamison's relief, they smoke until reality is a blur. At least for her. He can tell by the way she doesn’t adjust herself when her pencil skirt rucks up a bit and her arms hang without practiced posture. Then her head hangs to the window side and she might as well be a dead body because she does not move as she dozes. Jamison watches her chest rise and fall for a moment and then he decides it’s a good idea to head back.  
He studies her openly at every red light now. She has two bangles on each wrist. Her fingernails are painted maroon and have not a single flaw. Her legs have crossed at the bottom. Her legs. The hair there is not fully grown out, but not fully shaved either. He wants to run his finger across them. Around her neck is a lovely piece that costs more than ten of his paychecks combined and matches her earrings. He’s sure her shoes are a similar situation. He can’t see her top under her white jacket, but she looks too expensive and pristine to be sitting in his truck. And yet, she is and she’s very high.

When he pulls into the parking lot of the corner store where she left her car and where he works, she wakes. A few blinks and she runs her fingers through her hair. Then she reaches for the door handle and he feels his heart leaving him.

“Oi wait. What’s y’ name?”

It leaves him before he can stop it. 

"Please."

He hates how he sounds.

She pauses in the act for a second, her back to him. 

He doesn’t breathe.

Then she proceeds to open the door and her heels hit the concrete.

So does his heart.

But she turns around in the space between his truck and the open door and produces a white envelope from her jacket pocket. She places it on the seat she just vacated and her fingers linger over the top of it long enough for Jamison to look at her. Then she taps a single finger on it twice before closing the door.

Stunned, Jamison watches her retreat to her car on steady legs despite her high and continues to watch as the car pulls out and away in the opposite direction. His eyes then snap to the envelope. He picks it up slowly between fingers with chipped black nail polish and really looks at it.

It’s an envelope with more money than Jamison makes in a year and written on the back:

“- Vaswani”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration from the song Exodus by M.I.A
> 
> https://youtu.be/9Z4Mx9nlcPo
> 
> Lyrics that fit:
> 
> Jamie- "And my eyes can see in 3D, make it bright and I see 360"
> 
> Satya-"I can get you, but you can't get me"


End file.
